


Truth and Transitions

by intresszero



Category: Shadowrun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:19:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13083639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intresszero/pseuds/intresszero
Summary: An up and coming crew of Shadowrunners find themselves under fire during a risky corp run. Dusa, the de facto leader, is plagued by frequent battle trances and dissociative episodes. Can the crew make it to their objective and get out with the goods, or are they about to get greased?





	Truth and Transitions

“How dae we always get in these situations?!” a rather piercing voice rang out, almost inaudible over the hail of gunfire ricocheting against the metal walls that shielded them. 

“This drek is gettin’ old fast!” it cried, vying for attention as the loud twang of bullets assaulted the walls. 

“We need to end this soon. We can't afford to remain here; more security will be on us if we continue to delay.” A muted voice responded in turn.

“Super. I thought they were gonnae send in the chefs next.” The piercing voice sardonically replied.

“Ah, yes. I had forgotten your unerring and vexatious repartee when you’re under duress.” 

“Why ye supercilious—“ 

“Cut the chatter!” A gruff and commanding voice interjected curtly, mild irritation coating the words, definitively and loudly cutting them off. “The A.O. is hot and we still need to complete the run, so let’s deal with this and you can abuse each other later!”

“Got it.” The muted voice responded respectfully.

“Understood.” The sharp voice replied, all hints of acidity drained from his voice.

“Good, now hold positions and return fire. I’ll see if I can rouse our ‘leader’.”

Dusa was all but ignoring the calls for attention and the words of his teammates. His mind was elsewhere, focused solely on the battle at hand, entranced and indulgent. He was busy alternating between taking cover from the gunfire and gleefully making potshots at the assailants to comprehend the world outside his paradise.

“Du…! …p! …sa! Wa…”

There was a voice in his head now. It was a soft yet evocative resonance, a wordless whisper conjuring memories unknown to him, begging to be known. No… that was insulting. It demanded to be known, to be sought. This voice was a great many things, but supplicant it was not. It felt... eternal. Powerful and commanding. Alluring and otherworldly. Encompassing and… bestial. Yet, for all the eldritch majesty surrounding it or how mesmerizing it was, this voice held something even greater – understanding. 

The voice was like electricity, sparks weaving through his hazy thoughts and galvanizing him to consciousness one burst at a time. He was spellbound, held captive by this commanding voice -- nonverbal urges ululating in the recesses of his mind trying to emancipate him from his euphoric reverie; he could feel himself slowly slipping back from his elevated state until a bullet nearly grazed the side of his cheek, missing only by the grace of luck as he darted back behind the wall grinning wickedly as he lost himself to his trance again.

What a rush it was! The adrenaline coursing through his veins always reminding him why he lived for this! He was utterly ignoring his companions as he returned fire on their assailants, his upper body twisting around the wall as he fired without bothering to aim. You’d be hard pressed to get his attention when things ended up this way…and they did more frequently than his team would like. He could not help himself, it was irresistible and he felt most alive like this. He craved, no…he needed the joy and rush of battle to sustain him. Drifting listlessly through idle days was the worst kind of torture for him, too painful to endure yet too ill-advised to change. One should not look for needless trouble, a lesson he had internalized, yet failed to heed before each trance.

“…D…sa! …ke…p! …Dus… up!” 

He could suddenly feel his body jerking in what felt like random movements. As if in response the voice began to crescendo, a broken and distorted cacophony dancing through his mind, as if paradise itself was being torn asunder. The powerful echoes wreaked havoc as distorted shapes weaved themselves across his vision, sounds no longer synched to the shapes he visualized. He felt himself move from his station, rooted neither in mind nor body, as two distinct voices finally permeated his mind simultaneously.

The first of the voices breathed a command full of purpose. He heard the words lost to him before, a preternaturally wordless howl as clear as the cleanest sea yet silent as the truths of man -– “Awaken and heed, pup. I have called.” 

“Dusa! Wake up!” the second voice eked out, a solemn and definitively terraqueous tongue, and a far cry from the ephemeral calling he had heard.

He snapped to attention then, realizing that he was being rather violently shaken. “Frag,” He moaned under his breath, words slightly distorted by his forced oscillation and the explosion of bullets returned. “Just as it was gettin’ good…”

“You can have fun later. I’m sure there’ll be another opportunity. Right now, we need you.” The earthly voice spoke, and with the slightest tinge of identifiable concern added, “You alright?”

“Yeah, just…need a minute.” Dusa exhaled slowly, his mind taxed and pulsing from exertion.

“Lucky for you. That’s about all we can spare. Breathe, and walk it off.” 

He placed his hand on his head and blinked a few times while looking around the room, trying to recall the salient details of the task at hand; the euphoric haze slowly clearing from his mind. Dusa often needed a moment to focus his mind and re-absorb his surroundings as his ecstasy waned, an unfortunate and taxing side-effect of his trance-state.

He recalled initially thinking that this room was atypical for a small corp like this. The floors were grated and the walls starkly metallic, a far cry from the cheap plaster and carpeted flooring they had grown accustomed to as they maneuvered nearly unimpeded through the corporation. Two hallways branched off from the room, one about fifteen paces from the door and the other at the far end of the hall. Dusa had checked the closer hallway first and noted an elevator waiting at the opposite end. After weighing the options a moment, he thought it prudent to at least check the other hallway before they left the floor.

The far hallway led to a rather plain, but sturdy looking door. Dusa remembered trying the doorknob, and to his surprise, the door was unlocked. He had opened the door slightly and peeked in, gun drawn in case of emergency, and was greeted with an uncomfortable yet interesting sight. The room was dimly lit and barren, save for a lone chair that sat ominously in the middle of the room, surrounded by faint spots of a carmine color. Obviously dried blood, he had thought to himself, realizing both that this was an “interrogation” room and that this corp was not what it appeared to be.

Dusa recalled closing the door to the room, mildly disgusted, before remarking to his team.

“Interrogation chamber,” He had said with a gesture indicating the door behind him, words heavy with irritation. “This is looking less like a simple brush-up and more like a set-up.”

“Told you not to trust that Johnson. You’re too thick to listen.” He vaguely recalled one of them saying to him.

“Why do we even bother letting you accept jobs? One of these days we’re gonna end up dead. Another voice chimed in.”

“That’s easy. I’m the charismatic, pretty one!” He had responded, facetious as ever. “Besides, you know you like the thrills and the intrigue.”

His teammates had groaned audibly as they collectively rolled their eyes at him, mostly on principle. Dusa smiled, knowing their spirits had been lifted, even if only a bit. Every now and then someone has to switch on the good vibes. Too much play and your life is forfeit, but too little and you forfeit life. Far too bleak, he had thought to himself, as he rounded the corner to hallway in the middle.

Just then, as if on cue, the elevator had dinged and opened on their floor, a security patrol stepped out quickly and assumed a combat formation. Weapons were raised without pretense or warning, and then the hallway deafened under the roar of gunfire. Dusa and his team had already been walking down the hall, and upon sighting the opening of the elevator (the sound had been lost amongst the chuckles of camaraderie and the anticipation of success) they ducked back around the corners. Acting in synchrony the team had divided itself, half taking refuge on the right hand wall in the direction of the other hallway while the other rushed for the left-hand wall near the entrance. Dusa, having been at the front of the group, quickly dove at the ground as his teammate rounded the corner and rolled himself to safety as he took his position on the wall.

His mind had caught up now. He could always recall with unerring clarity the information that left his mind once he entered his trance-state. They came to him with perfect audiovisual acuity, phantasmagoric visions that felt as real as the moments they depicted. He could feel the concerned stares from his teammates and he supposed he looked the way he felt. Sweat dropping from his brow and accentuating his pallor, heavy forceful breaths escaping his lips as he recovered from his experience.

“Hey! You good?” the gruff voice called out, breathing life into the tense atmosphere.

Smirking, he turned his head to look at the person addressing him from the opposite wall as his eyes readjusted.

“Uhm, how does one define ‘good’?” 

“Argh! There’s no time for your foolish frivolities, boy!” the sharp voice spoke up from behind him.

A searing pain suddenly gripped Dusa. It was a familiar pain. He could never place why it happened, but…he knew ‘boy’ had something to do with it. It always began in his heart and travelled the radiated through his body. It was intense and it felt ceaseless. He had grown accustomed to the pain by this point. The only physical acknowledgement he would give was a subtle grimace that, if noticed, could easily be explained away.

Dusa turned, dramatically slow for effect, and was face to knees with a dwarf. He quickly appraised the garishly dressed creature. The stout form was adorned with a rather lavish seeming robe. A subtle lavender hue embroidered with golden runes. Slate gray boots covered wide feet, various aureate bands and chains inlaid with sparkling gems embellished the creature’s fingers, neck, and flowing auburn beard. A top hat, with a relatively small brim, rested atop the creature’s head, while the face was framed by golden bifocals and a scowl. 

Corsair was the most recent addition to their team of runners, and his talents came highly recommended from a Fixer that Dusa frequented. Dusa recalled their first meeting consisting of a tense and long negotiation. Dusa’s crew was looking for a “lifelong friend” so to speak, but Corsair was less than sold on the idea. It took some convincing, and a few individual runs, but Corsair eventually acquiesced and cemented himself as a long term runner. Dusa and the crew were happy to have a mage, especially one with a vast arcane knowledge. Although, Dusa mused, he was kind of a prick.

“Boy? With this figure? Pfft.” he joked, trying to hide his pain.

“Cute. Now get up ye drek, we have a run tae finish.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n Corsair, sir. I am at your command!”

Corsair groaned in annoyance to which Dusa smiled. He rose to his feet, dusting himself off, and surveyed his surroundings. He cast a quick glance back over to the perpetually scowling Corsair, smiled again, and then appraised his other two comrades.

The second of their group was an elf. She was tall and fairly slender, as was common of her people. She wore a mesh top that revealed a black bra with a strange white symbol adorning it. Over her top she wore a leather jacket embellished with rings, grommets, and a few straps; the same white symbol from her bra was emblazoned on the back. Typical black combat boots and black spandex pants rounded out her attire. Her hair appeared a luscious black, but upon closer inspection in good lighting was actually purple. She kept one side long and the other shaved to keep her data jack and circuit-board tattoos on display. A consummate decker, she kept her prized custom built cyberdeck strapped to her back and in her hand was a smart-linked submachine-gun.

She was the first official recruit to the crew, beyond him and his long-time friend Vigil, and boy was that was a great decision. It took ages to sift through Fixer contacts to find a decker willing to do dangerous runs with a two-person crew. Dusa had expected a challenging recruiting process, given her skill and experience, but she had shrugged and agreed almost instantly. She cited boredom and a casual love of danger, which Dusa found exceptionally relatable and intriguing. He also inquired about the insignia and was told it was her hackgroup’s, for easy member identification; the white dye was specially made to scramble recognition software and confuse the eye, an elegant method to counteract the downside of wearing your colors openly.

“Architect, you nabbed the schematics, right? Any alternative routes?” a voice spoke, interrupting Dusa’s musings.

His attention immediately snapped to the source. It was a large and imposing man, a troll, with wild asymmetrical horns and small tusks protruding from his mouth. His long black hair, typically flowing, was tied back ensuring maximum visibility during combat. He was heavily armored from head to toe, in the most literal sense of the word. His body had been heavily modified with matte black cyberware; from muscle replacements, wired reflex enhancers, and dermal plating under his skin to retractable hand razors for close combat. Dusa didn’t even know how extensive the cybertech upgrades were—nor how much they cost. Ever the pragmatist, he dressed quite simply, preferring an attire of a black trench coat, black pants, and black combat boots. A cadre of holstered guns, grenades, and ammunition adorned his body and the inside of his coat. He carried large knives at his sides, a smaller one affixed to his boot, and a sword on his back—intent on living up to the samurai in “street samurai”.

This intimidating presence and cybernetic terror was Vigil—Dusa’s oldest, and perhaps only, friend. The two had grown up, independently and without knowledge of the other, in the Redmond Barrens. They tried to eke out what passed for survival in a life of strife by joining the local warring gangs. A chance encounter, an explosion, and the tenacity of subsistence brought them together –a bond, loyalty, and debt kept them that way. They were siblings by all but blood, and they’d shed enough to make up for that deficit by now. In fact, Dusa recalled, the entire idea for the crew was Vigil’s. He wanted to make a better life somehow, and Running was one of the few opportunities society afforded to rats—the SINless and the maligned. Dusa was content to follow his lead, but Vigil adamantly maintained that Dusa’s charisma made him the de facto leader. 

“Unfortunately not, Vigil. My analysis concludes the elevator is the only route to the upper floors.”

Vigil muttered under his breath desperately trying to come up with a plan. Dusa placed a hand on Vigil’s shoulder reassuringly. Vigil swiveled his head raising an eyebrow.

“You got a plan?” he said expectantly.

“Oh, you’re good.” Dusa said with a wide smirk.

“Nah. This is just exceedingly commonplace. So, what have you got?” Vigil said, stifling an inappropriate chuckle.

“It’s risky, but it can work. We lead with grenades as a distraction and occupy their fire. Corsair, need you to deal with their weapons and armor. We follow through and rush ‘em.”

“Yeah…that is risky.” 

“Aye. We could just as easily die, but I have just tae spell methinks.” Corsair chimed in.

Dusa and Vigil looked to Architect waiting for her input, or refusal, before they elected to proceed. Architect was silent for a moment, running calculations in her head. 

“I estimate this plan has less than a 55% success rate.” she said somberly. She smiled deviously, “I’m in. Let’s do this.”

Dusa smirked and looked at Vigil, who promptly returned the gesture with a slight shake of his head. Vigil procured an assortment of flash, concussive, and fragmentation grenades from his cache and handed them to Dusa and Architect. Corsair began drawing and accumulating the arcane energies for his spell, knowing it would drain him to affect so many targets.

Vigil gave an inquisitive thumbs up to Corsair, receiving a nod in response. Vigil nodded his acknowledgement and counted down from three on his fingers. On cue the three of them lobbed their arsenal down the hallway, stunning the security force. Corsair followed suit letting loose a vicious and acidic spray from his hangs. The viscous liquid coated the heavily armed men, immediately melting through their weapons and armor. They screamed and writhed in agony, some falling to the floor from the pain, as the acid ate at their exposed flesh. The team, sans Corsair, barreled down the hall dispatching their anguished opponents. Corsair rested while the team worked, exhausted from the drain casting such a powerful spell wrought on him. Vigil systematically fired two rounds into the skulls of each body, making sure their kills were confirmed. Satisfied, he hurried to assist Corsair while the others entered the elevator.

“You good to go?” he said extending a hand to his weary teammate.

“Aye. Haven’t had ta drain myself like that in years, lad.” 

Corsair grasped the offered hand and was pulled back to his feet. The two hurried, somewhat, to the elevator. As they approach, Vigil spots Architect on her knees deck in hand.

“Something wrong with the elevator?” he said exasperatedly.

“They locked it down. I’ll have it running.” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t they.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, looking over to Dusa. He stepped closer and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Solid plan, Dusa. Skimmed through again.” he said, tired but smiling.

“Aye. Saved us again from being outlines again, lad.” Corsair piped in.

Dusa closed his eyes, that familiar pain starting up in his heart again. He wasn’t sure why it was affecting him so intensely today. Was it the …”vision” that he had? That was unusual come to think of it. He had always lost himself in his battle trances, at least as long as he could remember anyway. He couldn’t remember when they started, but he knew he’d had them for longer than his Runner career. He never had visions before, especially one so vivid and so…spiritual? He paused on the thought of spirituality momentarily. It wasn’t an avenue he ever spent time ruminating on and especially not in relation to himself. He made a note to revisit the topic when finished the run, assuming they didn’t all cark it.

“Why thank you~ I’m just glad we made it. This place can slot off.” Dusa said, chuckling lowly and notably lacking his typical flourish flourish.

“Almost done. I hope. So much for the ole 3G operation” Vigil lamented.

“True. It almost never works out.”

Vigil tightened his grip on Dusa’s shoulder and let it linger for a bit before stepping away. Dusa placed his hand where Vigil’s had been and smiled. Bless him, he thought, a true friend he was lucky to have. Having someone sense your pain, silently acknowledge it, and support you unquestioningly? That was practically a miracle. He resolved that they were going to live through this trash heap of a run. He had to pay Vigil back for being comrade for so long.

“And done.”

Dusa looked up as Architect pressed a key on her cyberdeck and the elevator terminal beeped. She strapped her cyberdeck to her back again, and pressed the top floor button as she stood. The doors closed and it rose slowly up the shaft. The team of Runners eased a bit, breathing a collective sigh of relief, but remained on guard. Dusa let his mind wander with the beeps of passed floors and the droning hum of the elevator.


End file.
